So. Here he was, had been forced to leave the place he'd come to think of as home. He was playing a waiting game. Waiting desperately for a call telling him all was OK and he could return.
And so the days passed.

Things weren't always bad though. Sometimes he'd have a bottle of wine at hand. Ice cold, just how he liked it. A few hours in the fridge and, afterwards, an hour in the freezer. After taking it up to his room he'd sit and watch the drops of condensation smoothly flowing down the outside of the bottle. Once opened, he wouldn't wait for the wine to 'breathe'. Pouring himself a glass, he'd pick a Marlboro from a packet, light up and gently pull, drawing the smoke into his mouth and lungs. And with a sense of well being and ease, he'd relax and enjoy both the wine and the cigarette. He liked to enhance his mood with his favourite Cowboy Junkies disc; the haunting and ghostly voice of the lead singer projecting out of the speakers, filling the whole room. And at the back of his mind, the thoughts of how it used to be and how it could be, pushing themselves forward with alarming speed to engulf his whole mind with pin-point clarity.

He'd really enjoy these moments. All these things could never be taken away from him.